Wind blossom Katana
The moment Mark's fingers closed around the orb, it **dissolved** into emerald mist. A pulse of green light erupted, blinding them both for a heartbeat—
—and when it faded, a **katana** rested in Mark's grip.
**32 inches of polished steel**, its blade etched with swirling patterns like wind currents frozen in metal. The hilt was wrapped in dark leather, the guard shaped like a blooming flower.
**[You have obtained: Unclassified Wind Blossom Katana]**
**[Strenght + 3/ Agility +2]
**[Durability 120/120]**
**[Mastery 0]**
**[New Skills Locked]**
- **Wind Slash (Mastery 10)**
- **Whirlwind Slash (Mastery 20)**
- **Air Splitter (Mastery 30)**
Mark exhaled, the weight of the blade perfect in his hand. *"Damn."*
He tossed Ren the dagger he'd been using before. *"Upgrade."*
Ren caught it, eyes wide—
—then the bushes **exploded**.
Goblins.
**Thirty of them**, screeching, their beady eyes glinting with malice. They poured from the jungle like a flood, rusted blades and jagged arrows aimed at the two of them.
No time to think.
Mark **moved**.
The Wind Blossom Katana sang as it sliced through the air, its edge a silver blur. Two goblin heads tumbled before their bodies even realized they were dead.
**[You have killed Unclassified Level 3 Goblin. +20 EXP.]**
**[You have killed Unclassified Level 3 Goblin. +20 EXP.]**
**[Blood Slash Mastery 5 → 6]**
**[You have reached Level 7]**
**[Stamina +2]**
**[3 Status Points to allocate freely]**
Arrows whistled toward them.
Mark didn't flinch.
**"BLOOD SLASH!"**
A crimson arc shredded the projectiles midair, splintering them into harmless shards.
Ren wasn't idle. His Death Scythe **flared** to life, its blade wreathed in black mist. He lunged, spinning, the weapon carving through three goblins in a single, brutal motion. Their bodies split cleanly, ichor spraying the grass.
But the scythe's drain was brutal. Ren staggered, gasping, his HP ticking down.
Mark didn't stop.
He became a **storm**, the katana an extension of his will. Every swing cleaved flesh. Every step was a kill. The goblins fell like wheat before a scythe, their numbers meaningless against his fury.
By the time the last one fled, the field was a graveyard.
**21 corpses** littered the ground, their blood soaking the earth. Mark stood amidst them, his neck-length white hair—now streaked crimson—fluttering in the wind. His chest rose and fell steadily, the katana dripping green-black ichor.
Ren lay nearby, sprawled beside **9** of his own kills, his breath ragged. *"I... hate... this scythe..."* he wheezed.